


Familiar Places

by bookjunkiecat



Series: This Heart of Mine Embraces [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Gay Bar, Gen, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Post-War, Unconventional Families, Wartime Romance, World War II, air raids
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-01
Updated: 2018-05-03
Packaged: 2019-04-30 12:27:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14496978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookjunkiecat/pseuds/bookjunkiecat
Summary: At the height of the war, two men meet by chance, and find the loves of their life. But nothing is promised to us.





	1. Farewell

**Author's Note:**

> {Please note that I have taken artistic license with certain things. The North African campaign ended May 7, 1943, when the Allies took Tunisia. The Allies then moved onto the invasion of Sicily in July 9 of the same year. “I’ll Be Seeing You” was an incredibly popular song with both Americans and the British during the war, but perhaps the most iconic version was recorded by Billie Holiday. However, that was in April of 1944. I’ve taken the liberty of moving the release of her record forward by one year.}
> 
> {During the war, women served in many capacities. The British WAAF (Women’s Auxiliary Air Force) and the WRNS/Wrens (Women’s Royal Naval Service), and the American WAVES (Women Accepted for Volunteer Emergency Service) and WACs (Women’s Army Corps)}
> 
> {No. 3 Commandos were part of the Eighth Army, which fought in North Africa and went on to invade Sicily, and later participated in D-Day.}
> 
> {SIS (Secret Intelligence Services, later referred to as MI6 for Military Intelligence, Section 6), along with the American OSS were in charge of crypto-analytics, propaganda, feeding the enemy false intelligence and many other acts at home and abroad}
> 
> {Between the Blitz and the so called Little Blitz was the period generally referred to as The Lull. However, bombs still fell on England, including one on June 17, 1943.}
> 
> Follow me on Tumblr @savvyblunders

The lights of the small club were low, the atmosphere further shrouded by smoke. The air was full of the combined smells of wool, sweat, talc and dozens of different colognes. Men in uniform--by far outnumbering the ones in civvies--shuffled on the small dance floor, their arms around their partners. The recent defeat of Axis forces in Tunisia had been a badly needed lift of the spirits for a British public heartily sick of war, economising and queuing for rations--and sick too, of the scads of American servicemen and women who had seemed to grow in number nearly weekly. Everywhere one looked, there were soldiers, sailors and airmen, pert WAAFs and Wrens, WAVES and WACs, and too many well-fed civilians with Yank accents; one could hardly walk through a public place without risking an elbow to the face what with all the saluting.

But tonight military protocols were only nominally acknowledged, tonight no skirted women smiled brightly at the men who might not come back from their next “assignment” out of London. 

No, tonight was a quiet moment in time to be snatched by men whose very existence was a crime. Tonight was for romance and hasty couplings, for dancing in the arms of another man--not because there were no women available, but because no women were needed. There had always been such clubs in London, but with the influx of servicemen more had opened clandestinely, operating on an underground level, word of mouth providing details between cautious comrades. The police were paid off to keep blind, and raids were rare.

No one cared about the quality of the drinks, or the state of the toilets. There was no band, no singer, just a jukebox on the tiny stage; patrons kept the plates spinning. It was just a place to dance, to hold a man in your arms and feel for a short time as if you belonged in the world you were trying to keep from burning to cinder and ash. 

Among the couples on the small dance floor were Sergeant Gregory Lestrade of No. 3 Commandos, lately of North Africa, and Mycroft Holmes of the SIS (or, as he informed the public with great deception and sweet earnestness, an epileptic junior editor responsible for publishing cookery pamphlets suitable for rations). 

As if they had known one another all their lives, instead of five brilliant, heartbreaking, all too brief days, the two men clung to one another wordlessly. On the morrow, Greg was to report for active duty, and the scuttlebutt was that he was going to be part of a force attempting an invasion of Fortress Europa--Italy was the rumour, although no one knew for sure. Mycroft, who could have easily found out, just closed his eyes and held his Gregory tighter.

“Can't believe we just met…feel like I've known you all my life,” Greg murmured, turning his head so he could press a kiss to Mycroft's neck. He squeezed his eyes closed, “If I’d been just two minutes later I'd have never gotten anywhere near you.”

They had both attended morning service at St. Paul's on Sunday and been two of the last people to squeeze into the few available seats. Greg had been struck by the slender young man with his flaming red hair, cool blue eyes and shy smile. He was one of the few young men present who wasn't wearing uniform, and he'd stuck out in the sea of khaki and olive drab in his navy tweeds and blue, yellow and oatmeal knit waistcoat. Greg had paid shamefully more attention to his seat mate’s long legs than he had the sermon.  
Loathe to see him disappear, Greg had introduced himself and asked if he'd like to have coffee. Coffee turned into lunch at a crowded café, then a walk along the river, with its blooming trees and sandbags. As twilight began to fall, Greg had longed to ask Mycroft back to his hotel room, but he was all too aware of the thin walls, and the MPs who made raids in the interest of flushing out “moral turpitude.”

Mycroft too had seemed reluctant to say goodbye. “This has been...lovely,” he admitted, glancing up at Greg who at thirty-two suddenly felt ancient at the sight of that earnest, freckled face. Mycroft had told him he was twenty-eight, but it hardly seemed believable. “London is lonely for a fellow like me,” he said lowly, looking up with a searching glance. Not a single word had passed between them that wouldn't have been spoken between any two men, and yet his eyes cried volumes. 

“You must have friends,” Greg had rasped, palms clammy, pulse skipping wildly. 

“No one…special.” Mycroft's eyes were huge, the colour of the magical twilight falling around them. Greg felt spellbound by wonder, by possibility. 

“I've…not known anyone…special...in years,” Greg confided carefully, looking away over the river, terrified he was imagining this. “And never anyone like you.”

“Dine with me,” Mycroft had said impulsively, laying his hand on Greg's arm briefly. It had been the first time they'd touched all day. Even through his uniform shirt and jacket, the warmth and potency of Mycroft’s touch woke something in him. I can't be falling in love, Greg had denied. 

But he was. They both were; as simply and easily as if the world weren't burning around them, and as if their love weren't considered a sin--and a crime. 

They spent as much time as possible together over the next few, precious days of Greg's leave. Mycroft's work was demanding, but he slipped away at lunch and they would walk and walk around the city, hands brushing, eyes meeting in silent accord. In the evenings he left as early as he dared and they would dine someplace quiet; once or twice they went to the cinema and in the crowded dark they would dare to hold hands. 

When dark fell and they by necessity parted, they were granted only a firm handshake and a friendly, “See you tomorrow, chap?”

Mycroft, desperately aware of time running out, finally made a very discreet inquiry as to the location of one of the illegal clubs for homosexuals he had heard rumoured. Hearts beating wildly, unsure what to expect, they had given the password and been admitted--to paradise. 

The club was nothing special, but in its walls they could be free. For the first time all week they dared to hold hands openly, to gaze into one another's eyes for more than a moment. After the first drink, Greg called him sweetheart, and Mycroft stared at the tabletop, fighting happy tears. By the second drink they were out on the floor, tentatively, awkwardly dancing...until they relaxed, finding their rhythm. 

After that it was easy. Just hold one another dreamily and sway in place. The tune didn't even matter, because it was just an excuse to embrace. Mycroft was too overcome to speak much, but he listened to Greg, who spoke with almost feverish urgency. As the evening spun out, he constructed castles in the air, weaving dreams out of hope and fear and longing. 

“After the war,” he said. “When peace is here,” he promised. “Things will be different then, Myke, they'll have to be--and we can be together then.”

“I'll wait for you,”Mycroft finally promised, face burning, voice low and throbbing with emotion. “Gregory, I'll wait for you…but you must swear you'll come back to me.”

“No matter what,” he vowed, and kissed Mycroft for the first time, there on the tiny dance floor, knees bumping, hearts racing. They stood, jostled by the shuffling dancers, peace stealing into their souls. “I want to be alone with you,” Greg said, fingers restless at the waist of Mycroft's trousers, “Let's at least get out of here…walk down by the river or something.”

“Alright,” Mycroft agreed, but hesitated as the record ended and another began...one he was all too familiar with. The song seemed to be everywhere these days, it was hopelessly sentimental.and yet he couldn't deny its power. “One last dance?” he asked hopefully, smiling into Greg's eyes. 

“As if I could say no to you,” Greg agreed. 

And as Billie Holiday’s low, rich voice crooned, the two lovers held one another and danced, tears standing in their eyes. 

“I'll find you in the morning sun  
And when the night is new  
I'll be looking at the moon  
But I'll be seeing you,”

Mycroft sang softly, lips brushing Greg's ear. “I'll be seeing you everywhere, my love, until you return to me.”

“Rommel couldn't end me in that bloody desert,” Greg murmured, “I'm tough as an old boot…I'll be coming back to you, my darling boy.”

“Hold me tighter,” Mycroft gasped, kissing him passionately, knowing their time was limited. During the blackout it was perilous to attempt travelling across the city, and he had to be at work earlier than usual, due to a special meeting being called. And too, his dear Gregory was to depart by train come morning. Still, he was dreading saying their farewells. 

At last they could delay no longer, and they ventured out into the darkened, dangerous city. They dared to hold hands as they walked cautiously to the corner where they would say their goodbyes. “Write me,” Mycroft said, at last, voice stilted. “If you can.” 

Greg patted the pocket of his uniform blouse where he had buttoned Mycroft's address. “You do the same, eh, Myke?”

“Of course,” Mycroft said, sounding miserable. They were silent as footsteps approached. The ghostly luminescence of a bobby’s cloak and gloves glimmered faintly, and they stepped a bit farther away from one another, suddenly abashed. 

In the darkness, Greg grabbed his hand and pressed it tightly, “Farewell for now, my darling boy,” he said in a whisper, crushing Mycroft's fingers. Aloud, he said, “Goodbye, Holmes, thanks for showing me London.”

“It was my pleasure, Lestrade,” Mycroft said briskly. “Do take care of yourself.”

“And you.” They stepped back, nodding, desperately searching the other's shadowed face, “Well…goodbye.”

“Goodbye…” With one last, long look, Mycroft turned and disappeared into the darkness.


	2. Return

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At last the cruel war is over...but the sweetness of life is still missing.

London, 1947

 

“Bloody hell, Holmes, that secretary of yours is a stunner--but cold as ice!”

Mycroft smiled briefly and with complete insincerity at Lloyd Haversham, who was standing in the doorway to his office, grinning and smirking and in general being a horrendous nuisance. Unfortunately he couldn't kick the man out, as his grandfather was rather spectacularly influential within the firm. “Miss Ferris is marvelously efficient--and, more importantly--bilingual. I find her indispensable.”

“Like the way she takes down your briefs, eh?” He snickered at his own joke. 

Smiling politely, Mycroft set his pen down, recognizing that he wouldn't see any work done whilst Haversham was inflicting himself on him. No wonder Anthea had seen him in and disappeared, muttering about her tea break. He hoped she brought him back a cup, and perhaps a biscuit. As he so often seemed to these days, he'd missed lunch. Mycroft found it hard to care about food, or much of anything, for that matter.

Luckily Haversham finally wandered off after a quarter hour or so, and by that time Anthea had returned, bearing a tray with a cup of tea, one wonky biscuit and a fish paste sandwich. He looked at it with distaste. “Sorry, sir,” Anthea said, setting the plate down, “The canteen is out of nearly everything. I can see if Muriel Grainger has left any of the tomatoes her father sent her.”

“I shan't be beholden to Ronald Talley by way of his secretary's fathers tomatoes,” Mycroft said dismissively as she shut the door; he sipped his tea, scowling at the lackluster brew. “No sugar?”

“We're out ‘til the end of the month,” Anthea gloomily reported, sitting down in the chair opposite his desk and pulling out her pencil and notebook, “Will this sodding rationing ever end, do you think?”

“War is expensive,” Mycroft said dryly, “and the damned Americans terminated Lend-Lease on us--it's not going to end anytime soon, I'm afraid.”

“I sometimes wish I had married that Yank flyboy who was so keen,” Anthea mused wistfully, “He was from some tiny farm in the middle of nowhere, and we didn't have two words to say to one another outside of bed…but I bet he has heaps of food.”

“The American economy is booming even more than during the war,” Mycroft sneered, “They're black market opportunists.”

“But they have bacon. And cigarettes. And chocolate.” And perfume, and stockings and lipstick, Anthea thought with an inward sigh.

“How liberal would you say Lieutenant Miller was?” Mycroft mused, eyes twinkling, “How would he feel about a bride and a groom? He might find he likes having like a harem.”

Anthea chortled, “It would break up the monotony of life with Ma and Pa in Kansas…or was it Arkansas? I never can tell them apart.” Anthea dismissed the matter with one capable hand and smoothed her chignon, smiling to herself. Mycroft felt a tiny surge of affection for her--if it weren’t for Anthea he wouldn’t be alive--and on more than one occasion.

“He's probably already married and fathering farmhands,” Mycroft grumbled, hurrying through a bite of his sandwich. He really despised fish paste. 

“You and I could get married,” Anthea offered absently, pencil busy, “Mum's been saving her last jar of black currant jam for when I get married. We could split it and go wild.” She looked up, face mischievous, “Who needs a honeymoon when you can gorge yourself on jam?”

“That's hoarding.”

“I’ll let you tell her that, shall I?”

“No, no,” Mycroft assured her hastily, “Leave your mother and her jam alone.”

“Too right.” Anthea erased a line, blew gently at the page to remove the bits of gum and studied it with a thoughtful face. 

“What's that?” Mycroft asked, finishing his sandwich with gratitude and washing his mouth out with tea. He dunked the biscuit in the last of the tea and sighed for pre-war times and afternoon tea at his mother's. 

“Man I saw this morning when I was queuing for the bus; handsome devil, isn't he?” Anthea jumped to her feet in alarm, dropping her pencil and tablet, “Mycroft!”

*

The promised letters never came. 

To be fair, Mycroft wasn't there to receive them. Following the most magical, revelatory night of his life, Mycroft had drifted about his small, high ceilinged rooms, unable to settle. All he could think about was the knowledge that there was no promise given any of them for a tomorrow. What if Gregory never came back? He could die somewhere and Mycroft would never be notified. To the world he was no one.

His skin burned with the need to feel Gregory against him; anxiety over his stupid, cowardly ways costing him one night of happiness gnawed at Mycroft’s insides until he could scarcely stand to be alone. Finally, he had dressed and managed to convince himself Gregory would welcome him if he arrived unannounced at past one in the morning. It didn’t matter if he was upset--all that mattered was being together while they could.

And then the sirens had screamed out their warning when he was but a few minutes from his house, and Mycroft had pelted through the pitch black for the nearest Anderson shelter, tripping and falling, opening a gash in his chin. He'd managed to make it, falling inside just behind a pyjama-clad householder who was chivvying his wife and sleepy, terrified children inside. The two of them had heaved the door to and all five people crouched in stricken silence, punctuated only by the sound of the youngest boy's sniveling. 

By the time the all-clear sounded, it was nearly dawn, and Mycroft had staggered out, exhausted, dusty and disoriented. His plans to return home and clean himself and don fresh clothing had been derailed when he arrived to find his house and those on either side a smoldering crater in the blasted earth. Everything he had owned had been destroyed, his neighbors dead, his home reduced to rubble. 

When he arrived at the office Mycroft had forgotten entirely that he had been called to come in early for the mysterious meeting...it was simply that he had nowhere else to go. Mycroft had been operating on his last reserves, too stunned to think what he would do next; and when his mentor, his Uncle Rudy's old schoolmate Peter Foster, had locked the door and begun to tell him of the reason for his presence, it all seemed like a dream. A dream which only grew more strange and fantastical as the day, and indeed the weeks went on.

When the war had finally ended--and when at long last he came back to England following a very long turn with the Foreign Office during the general mop up with Germany’s surrender--Mycroft had lived for a short time in the tiny flat in Hampstead Heath. There his bookish younger brother was cohabiting with his doctor friend, who had served in the Mayala Command and fallen prisoner to the Japanese following the Battle of Singapore in ‘42. After nearly three years as a POW, Captain Watson was suffering horribly from battle fatigue as well as a host of physical ailments, but he was alive, and that was all that mattered. Mycroft hadn’t stayed long with them, all too aware he was intruding on their quiet joy.

The world was giddy with celebration--and deep in mourning, the true cost of war becoming more clear every day, in the Pathé newsreels, the harrowing tales of returning servicemen, the terrible rumours that had transfixed the world for years now proven true. In the face of such devastation, it seemed little enough for him to return to the Channel Islands and visit his parents for the first time since the Germans had invaded. There had been no word of their fate for the nearly five years during which they had been captive in their own country. Mycroft was guiltily aware of how peaceful he had found the lack of letters, even as he had worried for their safety. The inhabitants of Musgrave Hall, however, had weathered the occupation well enough, despite being severely malnourished from the near starvation they had endured during the past winter.

He remained less than a week, saying very little, putting off a visit from them since he as yet had no home. To his father’s mild suggestion that he return to live with them and take over the running of the home farm, he had merely pretended he would consider it. There was absolutely no chance he would ever return to live with them again, not even if he had to sleep in the streets.

Mycroft secured a bedsit in a crowded, grimy building in a part of town which had survived the years of bomb raids relatively intact, and went about rebuilding his life; luckily he was welcomed back at his old insurance firm, and despite continuing privations, he was hopeful for the future. Eventually life would return to normal, or the new post-war version of it; the British were indomitable, as were people everywhere. He was quite certain that he would find the sweetness of life again one day.

No matter how tired he was at the end of each day, how dispirited as he returned to sit on his narrow bed and wait for the kettle on the hot plate to heat; despite continued rationing, long queues, rubble in the streets, missing faces and vanished places, Mycroft found his days and nights consumed with one desire. He ached in every fibre of his being for his Gregory, as he had done every day for more than two years. 

He had no home address for him, and was hesitant to write care of his regiment after so many years...what if what they’d had was only fleeting? He veered wildly between hope and despair, unable to determine whether it was too late to write. After a few months, Mycroft couldn’t bear not knowing any longer, and asked some of his old contacts for a favour. And found out that Greg Lestrade had indeed survived the invasion of Sicily, and the intense fighting through the Italian countryside, before being withdrawn to England with the rest of the No. 3 Commandos. He had gone on to land on D-Day, and later to fight in the Ardennes Offensive before becoming part of the force which moved into Germany.

At the time of the report, Mycroft had read with numbness spreading mercifully through him, that Sergeant Lestrade was currently part of the occupying force in Germany--shortly due to return home to his wife of two years and his young son.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so, so sorry. I know this is horrible of me, but I swear it will be alright! I'm now extending this to at least four chapters.
> 
> There will be explanations and heartache and redemption. And more Anthea!
> 
> And there will be further stories in the series, sometimes including Mycroft and Greg, sometimes not.


	3. Reunion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Knowing his beloved is in the same city, Mycroft cannot help but try and catch a glimpse of his life now. In so doing, he approaches the woman who has stolen his future.

There was no question of any type of approach, of course. Mycroft had obtained the information regarding Gregory’s whereabouts purely to know which part of the city to avoid--it shouldn’t be hard, London was a teeming city. No, there would be no reunion, no awkward meeting where recriminations might tremble on the lips. On this fact Mycroft was resolute; his heart really couldn’t take any further blows.

So there was absolutely no reason for him to be lingering in the dubious shelter of a struggling elm sapling, smiling blankly at delivery boys, playing children, and the housewives who came out to sweep their stoops or shout at their children. If he hesitated much longer, someone would summon a bobby. Mycroft took out his small notecase and pencil and pretended to be taking notes, trying to look inoffensive and harmless. He wasn’t even sure why he was here. Why he was a few doors down from the address where his source had indicated Greg Lestrade had recently rented rooms with his family.

No--that wasn’t true; he knew exactly why he was here. He...needed to see him. Needed to see if he was happy.

It was past the time when most men had already left for work (indeed, Mycroft was going to be late, but he had invented a dentist’s appointment to excuse his absence), and as yet there had been no sign of Greg. Mycroft glanced at his wristwatch, squinting slightly through the old scratches on the glass face; nearly nine. If Greg didn’t appear by five after, he would admit defeat and leave.

Not a minute later, the door of number 23 opened, and a man stepped out; Mycroft almost dismissed him as unimportant upon spying the graying hair, but then a shock went through him as he recognized the man. It was Greg. His hungry eyes ran over his form; he had put on a bit of weight, his shoulders seemed more impressive, and there were new lines in his face which hadn’t existed when last they met. He settled a hat on his head and spoke through the door to someone out of sight, then pulled the door shut and jogged lightly down the steps. Turning away from Mycroft, he set off down the street, shortly to turn out of sight. 

Trembling from the strength of his feelings, Mycroft clung to the rough bark of the tree, closing his eyes as pain moved through him. Gregory was alive. Alive and doing well, from the looks of him. Whomever he had spoken to (and Mycroft could make his conjectures) had put a smile on his face. He was--happy. Content. His life was a source of pleasure for him and Mycroft was very much out of place. What he should do was to leave now and never return.

What he should do, however, was not what he was doing. Almost before he realized it, his feet were moving across the pavement, approaching the front door of number 23. Not stopping to rethink his impulse, Mycroft knocked on the door, aware that he felt almost lightheaded from shock and nerves. It was somehow very important that he see her, the woman who had supplanted him in Gregory’s affections.  
The door swung open, revealing a darkly pretty young woman in a faded print dress, her hair knotted under a scarf; clearly she was intent on cleaning house. “Hullo--can I help you?”

Mycroft smiled quickly, eyes already moving past her to the dim interior; it was a shared hall, with several doors on either side of a steep staircase. His information hadn’t revealed which floor the Lestrades lived on. “Er, yes, I’m looking for Mr. G. Lestrade,” he spoke, quickly thinking.

“Oh, you’ve just missed him!” She smiled at Mycroft, “I’m his wife, Sally. Is there something…?”

For a moment his hearing shrank, from somewhere came a whistling, shrill in his ear, and Mycroft closed his eyes briefly, grasping at composure--and a lie. “Oh...I...erm, I’m J-John Watson, with the Greater London Housing Commission. We’re gathering information on new arrivals for a post-war census. Might I come in?”

Incredibly, she believed him, stepping back, “Oh please,” she invited, closing the door behind him, “I’ll--be happy to answer any questions I can, but you may need to come back when my husband is home. He made all the arrangements for the move.” She led him down the hall, past the staircase, to the back of the house, where, if possible, it was even darker. “It’s really too bad you didn’t arrive a few minutes ago, Greg just left to meet an old mate of his from the Commandos--he’s not due to start work until tomorrow and I needed him out from under foot while I clean!”

“Oh?” Mycroft asked hollowly, staring at her narrow shoulders, the elegant neck. She turned and smiled, apologetic, and he hoped his face hadn’t been too revealing. He gave her a sickly smile.

“It’s--we’ve only just moved in,” Sally Lestrade said anxiously, “Things were in a right state when we got here--the last tenants hadn’t cleaned and they left a lot of their old rubbish behind. I’ve not gotten things settled, please excuse the mess.”

“I’ve seen homes in every state you can imagine,” Mycroft said, not caring a jot if the place were a shambles. He wasn’t even entirely certain why he had come here. 

The flat was small, and poky, and stacked with boxes and crates, half-unpacked. It smelled of Dettol, and clear in-roads had already been made on the left-behind mess. In the center of the small kitchen cum sitting room was a scrubbed table surrounded by chairs, one of which was a high chair, containing a rosy-brown boy of about three, currently covered in porridge. “Davy,” his fond mother scolded, “You are a sight!” She threw over her shoulder, “Please have a seat, Mr Watson, and I’ll get the kettle on to boil.”

“There’s really no need,” Mycroft protested weakly, hating the idea of accepting her hospitality under false pretences--he had been prepared to hate her on principle, but she seemed warm and bright.

“Nonsense, won’t take a tick--anyroad, my mam didn’t raise me to leave callers gasping without a cuppa.” She was efficient, moving around the small kitchen with ease, filling the kettle, plucking tea cups down from the shelf over the cold water tap, wiping her son’s face, and shushing his protesting squawk. Mycroft watched her helplessly, wanting to hate her--to find fault. But she was just a woman who happened to have fallen in love with Greg, and that he could understand. “Well,” she said, dropping into a seat across from him after plucking Davy from his seat and plunking him on her lap with a teasing groan about how big he was getting, “What sort of questions do you have for me?”

“What part of the country are you from originally, Mrs Lestrade?”

“Born and bred Yorkshire woman, for the first years of my life, anyway. We lived in Manchester until I was ten, and then we lived for three years in Merseyside. Then my dad got a job in Plymouth at the docks; my parents still live there. That’s where I met Greg--we lived next door to the Lestrades,” She smiled, pulling her son’s hands away from where he was trying to tug off her kerchief, “London is going to be a different adventure altogether, I can tell.”

“Hmm, yes--and what did you do during the war, if you don’t mind my asking?” Mycroft belatedly got out his notecase and pretended to scribble down her answers. 

“I’m a nurse,” Sally Lestrade answered promptly, “My focus was on midwifery, but what with the war--and Plymouth was so hard hit during the Blitz--”

“Quite,” Mycroft said dryly. “And--your husband? Did he grow up in Plymouth?” He knew where Gregory had been born, where he’d lived and what his parents had been like--that he had a younger brother, and two older sisters--that he had been an estate agent before the war. But he had to pretend ignorance.

“Somerset,” she answered promptly, rising to remove the kettle and fill their cups. She made a face, “‘fraid we’ve no sugar nor milk,” she excused, setting the saucer down in front of him.

“Nor has anyone,” Mycroft said shortly, and then felt bad; he smiled kindly, “Thank you for the tea, Mrs Lestrade. Now...Somerset?” He kept his eyes away from the sheets hanging discreetly around a corner of the room, where a bed and crib could just be glimpsed. He couldn’t think about the two of them sleeping together--making love--happy.

“Oh yes,” she continued, glancing at her son, who had commenced playing on the rug with some rather gnawed looking blocks. “In Kewstoke, actually, until he was in his last year of school, then the family up and moved to Plymouth--same reason as my dad, looking for work.”

“And you--” Mycroft was saying, but was interrupted by the door swinging to without warning. They both looked up in surprise, Sally’s melting into a smile, Mycroft’s into a look of apprehension.

“Sal--I--” Greg looked at them both, his face clenched in confusion and disbelief, and then, as his complexion turned waxen, he staggered against the door and gasped out a strangled, “Myke?”

*

Davy, protesting, had been put down for a nap, and the three adults sat around the table, Sally’s hand on Greg’s arm as her bright, worried gaze flitted from one man to another. Mycroft clutched desperately at his cooling tea cup and finished his horribly aborted tale, “...of course, given the exigencies of war-time secrecy, I was unable to write to you, and it never occured to me to think that you would have any reason to find out about my flat being bombed.” He ran his thumbnail uneasily over the grain of the wood, worrying at it, stomach tumbling. “I--assumed...you had…”

“I never forgo-” Greg’s voice broke and he hung his head, shoulders heaving as he struggled to maintain his composure. Mycroft clutched at his stomach, sick with grief. He felt as if he were losing Gregory all over again. He stared at Sally’s hand on her husband’s arm.

“I can’t believe you’re Myke,” Sally said in hushed, wondering voice. Mycroft looked at her in surprise, and she met his eyes, her expression so knowing and sympathetic that he blushed. “Greg’s told me about you--we both thought you were dead!”

“I--” What was he supposed to say? What did Sally know? Mycroft looked at Greg helplessly, but his face was turned towards the table, his expression bleak. He could feel Sally looking between them, heard the soft sound of distress she made; reluctantly he looked at her, trying to recall himself from his ceaseless feelings of loss.

“This is…” her face turned gray, sagged; with tear-filled eyes she looked at Greg, then back at Mycroft, before looking tragically at her husband and exclaiming, “Th-this is all my fault!” Stumbling, she dashed away from the table and threw herself through the curtains, onto the bed. The shriek of the springs undercut the emotion in the room. As Davy began to fuss, Greg stood, hands hanging at his sides, appearing utterly exhausted. He looked at Mycroft, naked, eyes wet, “I...don’t--go anywhere, okay? Just--I have to--Sally…”

Misery curled around him like a blanket, Mycroft sat at the table, trying not to hear Sally’s sobs, or the low, urgent tones of Greg’s voice, his beseeching, “Sally, love--”

Unable to bear it, Mycroft stood jerkily, opened his mouth but couldn’t summon any words. What was there to say? Greg didn’t belong to him anymore--if he ever had--and by staying here Mycroft was only delaying the inevitable moment when Greg tried to gently make him see reason. There was no future for them.

Looking over his shoulder, Mycroft glimpsed Greg’s hair, the line of his back, and gasped silently, aching. Goodbye my love, he thought, slipping silently out the door. I hope you are happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear there will be happiness in the next chapter. Seriously.


	4. Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And finally, we're home...although it has taken an unexpected turn, Mycroft's life has sweetness once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading--this was all written much more rapidly than usual for me, and the chapters were shorter. But it was fun for me to write, and I hope it was fun for you to read. Although when I started I just had the scene of Greg and Myke dancing in a smoky club on the eve of war, listening to "I'll Be Seeing You," it soon began to grow itself in different directions. I didn't intend for it to end up where it did, but I'm actually delighted with it. It is my wish that my readers are satisfied, and not disappointed in the happy ending I've written.
> 
> Thank you all for your lovely comments...if you enjoyed this, please stay tuned for more of this world. Next up is Sherlock and John, which will move back and forth from present day (well, present day as of the year this chapter ends in) to pre-war, and ante-war. There will be more Sally, and more Anthea, and other characters come to play. I doubt I will update as quickly as I did with 'Familiar Places,' but I'll try for frequent updates. 
> 
> Follow me on Tumblr @savvyblunders <3

London, 1951

 

His parents have never been invited, although they have often tried to invite themselves. At times Mycroft feels a marked degree of guilt that he isn't closer to his parents. But whenever he is around them his anxiety surges, and his irritation with how little they know--or care to know--him rages. Sherlock flatly told him he doesn't want them to be a part of his life. Not given their reaction when he told them he was homosexual. Sherlock always was braver that way. 

Greg’s have come the once, to see them settled, but found the trip too difficult, what with Mr Lestrade’s work not permitting him much free time, and Mrs Lestrade’s bad back making travel uncomfortable. They’re pleased their eldest (and now only) son has settled down, even if it is all rather unconventional. But then, with the price of renting or owning a home in London, it really does make sense for friends to split the costs like that. And Greg lives in a very nice house, much finer than anyplace they ever had, that was certain. 

Sally’s father refused to come to see them; he’s still not forgiven Sally for falling pregnant by David Lestrade, nor has he forgiven David having the nerve to die before marrying her. He’s not satisfied that Greg stepped up and married his brother’s pregnant fianceé in a Catholic ceremony per her father’s wishes. He finds very little in life to please him and they have stopped trying. While her mother would love to come, she’s a quiet, biddable woman--nothing like her daughter--and contents herself with long, rambling letters, and the snaps Sally sends.

Anthea told her mother she was moving in with friends and that it was all very Bohemian and she didn’t want to hear a word about it if she and Jack came to visit. Her mother still schemes to see her married--although the jar of blackcurrant jam was smuggled out of the house by Anthea, who used it to make some fairly decent cake for them all. Anthea’s mother just hopes that if her odd, unsettling daughter ever marries she’ll plan it for when rationing has finally ended 

John was an orphan. No one to mind what he was getting up to, or with whom. No one except for them, his adopted family of friends. John has a vague memory of having a brother called Harry, but he's no idea if he still lives. They'd never heard of him at the orphanage when John was old enough to inquire. John’s just happy the nightmares aren't as bad, that he can sleep in the same bed with Sherlock. That the sight of his terrible scars don't frighten his housemates when he forgets his robe and has to dash from the shower in a towel. 

Greg had found the house; a tall, narrow building crammed in between a row of others just like it in Limehouse. The area was predominantly Chinese, although there were many races and creeds living all around them. It was rather a hodgepodge of cultures and influences, with a good deal of interracial unions, unmarried couples and odd family units. It suited their household down to a tee.

Sherlock and John shared the attic…they had plans to put in a skylight over their bed when they had the money saved. John liked to be able to see the open sky--stopped him from having panic attacks. Sherlock just liked to see John happy. 

Anthea had her rooms on the floor below, down the hall from little Davy’s room. She was rather fond of the imp, and they often went on “adventures” together. Davy was seven now, and he was fairly sure Auntie Anthea wasn't a pirate, despite her false leg. But she was teaching him French and how to start fires without matches, and how to knock bottles off the back garden wall with a slingshot. 

On the floor below that were the bedrooms belonging to Sally, Greg and Mycroft. The three of them had their own bedrooms, but there was an open arrangement which allowed for the sharing of bedpartners--and not always the ones which one might suspect.

Indeed it was a very liberal house; Anthea had not lied when she told her mother it was all quite Bohemian. They all of them worked, even Davy, who helped in the garden they were trying to grow. Their meals were shared, as were the expenses of the house, and there was comfort in knowing there was always someone around to lend a hand or an ear or just sit and quietly drink tea in the wee hours, when demons and unhappy memories ran them from their beds. 

Sherlock was happily back in his labs, now working for a company developing medicines for peace-time, rather than creating invisible inks, knockout drops contained in lipstick, cameras disguised as eyeglasses, and the like. John Watson had found a return to hospital life too strenuous, but he was content at the change of courses he had undertaken, and was now nearly ready to join a veterinarian's practice. As he explained over one of their typically boisterous dinners one night, animals were much more reasonable than people.

With Davy now in school, Sally had decided she wanted to go back to her first love, and has filled her days with midwifing duties. Already she's becoming quite well known in their neighborhood for being willing to go out at any hour, often working for free, or bartering her skills for coal, or fresh vegetables, or repair to the horrible old car John bought. The lot of them will often cram in and go for a spin when the weather is nice and the tires will hold air. 

Greg, through natural charm, dogged ambition, and being ready for anything, has risen to great heights at the estate agents and makes a very comfortable living. Now he’s begun to urge them all to consider pooling their money and investing in property, promising that London will only ever become more expensive to live, and having rental property will be a godsend for hard times.

Mycroft still works at his old insurance firm, but Anthea, now that she’s seen him sane and settled, moved on, currently she is working as an artist’s model and is learning dressmaking. When she gets too bored she disappears for a few days, goes hunting and practices her target shooting, or takes up auto repair or cookery--which is a good job, as the rest of them are terrible at making an edible meal. Mycroft misses her irreverent presence in the office, but privately admits his new secretary is much better at filing and far less insubordinate. Still, there are days he misses the great puzzle that was the war, the constant, exciting buzz of danger from slipping into France and subverting the Vichy government and the Nazi occupiers. 

Not long after Gregory, Sally and Davy had entered his life, his old mentor had come calling. Young men such as himself, he was given to understand, would prove invaluable in the ongoing fight against Communism. There was always a place for him back at MI6. 

Tempting as had been the idea of engaging his mind in puzzles and games, endless international chess moves, Mycroft had balked at living a life of eternal secrecy from his loved ones. And too…the kind of scrutiny such a career move would bring to bear on his personal life was dangerous. In the end he had declined graciously, and put up with the dull monotony of the insurance business. 

For after all, at the end of the day he had a rich life to come home to. His beloved Gregory, his darling Sally, wee David…his brother and his companion, stalwart Anthea. Yes, life, for Mycroft, was very, very sweet. 

*

It was late and Mycroft was quite sure he was the only one still awake. He'd been up for ages after dinner, after everyone started drifting off to their rooms. He'd smoked his Players and plodded away at the report he was putting together for his superiors, longing for bed. Finally unable to focus any longer, he walked softly through the house, avoiding from habit the squeaky floorboards. 

A quick shower and he snapped off the light before crossing the hallway to his bedroom. He was just about to close his door when Sally emerged from her room, medical bag over her arm, keys in hand. “Patient?” he asked softly. 

“Missus Ah Foo in Finches Court,” Sally murmured, “They sent their oldest just as you got in the shower.”

“It’s late,” he said doubtfully, “Shall I walk you?”

“No pet, thanks, but little Paul Ah Foo is waiting on the stoop for me… besides, I've a bit of a reputation as being no-nonsense, and I’ve done a lot for the women in this neighborhood-- no one ever messes me about.” Sally kissed him, “Think Greg's still up, waiting on you. Go in and say goodnight?”

“Be safe, dear,” Mycroft said, squeezing her shoulder. He grinned when she called back softly for him to not keep Greg waiting. Bypassing his door, he walked along the hall and tapped lightly at Greg's door; there was a dim light at the bottom of the door, and Greg’s soft voice bid him enter. He was lying in bed, shirtless, in only his boxers, the rumpled sheets at his feet, reading one of Davy’s comics. Dark eyes regarded him brightly, eagerly, “There’s my gorgeous man...I thought I was going to have to come fetch you to bed.”

Mycroft leaned in the doorway, ran a hand through his damp hair, “My eyes were beginning to cross--finally called it quits.” He smiled fondly at him, “You shouldn’t wait up for me.”

“Gotta have my goodnight kiss,” Greg said, tossing the comic book aside. 

“Just a kiss?” Mycroft asked archly, closing the door behind him. He hung his robe over the back of the straight chair next to the tall chest of drawers they’d found on the street and humped home. A bit of cleaning and repair, and a coat of bright blue paint and it was practically good as new. Greg’s eyes roved over him hungrily, and Mycroft breathed out in thanks that his life was interwoven with this man. 

“C’mere,” Greg held out his arms and Mycroft joined him on the bed, sighing happily as their limbs slid together, legs tangling, arms looping hungrily around one another. Their kiss was long and sweet, hands roaming with restless pleasure for long minutes, until the desire began growing hotter, and Greg rolled onto his back, pulling Mycroft on top of him. Groaning, Mycroft dragged his erection along Greg’s, shuddering at the pleasure. “God...you beauty...that feels amazing…” Greg kissed his neck softly, “I love you, my darling boy…”

“I love you,” Mycroft replied, sitting up and taking them both in hand. He looked at Greg with desire-darkened eyes, “I love having this with you...ah!” Shivering at the exquisite torment of their flesh sliding together, he let his head tip back, blinking, then smiled back down at Gregory, “I love our life…”

Greg’s hands were firm on his hips, his eyes blazing hotly up at him, “No regrets about how life ended up?”

“N-none,” Mycroft gasped as Greg’s fingers reached around behind him and found the sensitive skin between his arse cheeks, “Life is perfect…” He groaned, pressing back against Greg’s touch, which was delicious, but too light. “I want to ride you, love.”

“God, yes,” Greg agreed fervently, reaching in the bedside drawer for the familiar jar. He ran sleek fingers over Mycroft’s arse cheek, squeezing him with delight, grinning, “You’re unfairly sexy for a man of thirty-six--I feel like a dirty old man.”

Mycroft found it hard to focus, what with the delight of slick fingers entering him, and a warm palm loosely stroking his hard prick. “You’re only thirty-nine, Gregory...hardly an old man…”

“‘Bout to be forty,” Greg said, sounding a bit ragged, “That’s--yes, love, bear down, oh yes...that’s--properly old.”

“I’ll keep you young,” Mycroft leaned down, shivering at the brush of Gregory’s rough chest hair on his nipples, whispered hotly into his mouth, “Between me and Sally we’ll have you living to see your hundredth birthday…”

“Or be the death of me,” Greg panted, “Ah...Myke...darling...slowly, I don’t want to--”

“I’m ready,” Mycroft managed to say, controlling his breathing, “Oh God...Gregory....” He was more than ready, but the first stretch always took his breath away. Four years and each time somehow always felt like the first; the incredible excitement, the exhilarating emotions, the tinge of anxiety, the swoop of his stomach when he finally felt Greg sink all the way home. Sitting up, Mycroft smiled softly down at his love, bracing his palms on Gregory’s chest for support, and began to rock slowly, the way they both loved. “Ah...you feel so good, love…”

“Yes, baby,” Greg crooned, squeezing his hips, eyes bright as black diamonds, “My beautiful darling boy…” He shifted, drawing his knees up, planting his feet on the mattress and using the leverage to rise into the roll of Mycroft’s hips. Mycroft hissed at the sharp ache of white-hot pleasure that spiked through him as Greg found his prostate. He arched into Greg’s hand as he began stroking Mycroft’s flagging erection, drawing ecstasy out of him.

The bed squeaked softly with their lovemaking, the hushed quiet punctuated by sighs and moans, and the soft endearments they showered upon one another. Mycroft leaned back, bracing his hands on Greg’s legs, and purred as his lover rolled his palm over the head of his prick. “Sweetheart…”

“You want to come, darling? Hmm?” Greg’s fingers tightened on his hips, and he began thrusting forcefully up into him, slamming Mycroft’s body down onto him. Mycroft swallowed a jagged sob, feeling the keen edge of pleasure cresting inside of him, and with one hand he began to stroke himself, light, fast motions that ramped up his swelling need, and with a muffled shout he came. When the post-orgasmic haze receded, Mycroft was lying along Greg’s side, dazed, vaguely sore, deliciously used and smiling dopily. Greg’s breath was still sawing in and out of him, and he was grinning vacantly at the ceiling, one arm wrapped around Mycroft, his fingers stroking his back.

“Hope we didn’t wake the rest of the house,” Mycroft said idly a long while later, rolling to bury his nose in Gregory’s chest, tugging lightly at the hair with his lips, smiling at the expected yelp. 

Greg chuckled sleepily, “Think they’re used to it by now...and it’s not as if Sherlock and John aren’t as loud, in their way…” he reached out a long arm and turned off the lamp, veiling them in soft darkness, “You sleeping with me tonight?”

“Mmm,” Mycroft agreed cosily, reaching with his toes for the sheets, “‘s your alarm set, Gregory? I’ve got to--” he yawned hugely, “--be up early.”

“For five thirty,” Greg agreed, settling into his pillow, “We can have breakfast together...if Sal’s back we can hear all about the Ah Foo baby.”

“It’s her eighth,” Mycroft remarked sleepily, “I’m sure Mrs Ah Foo has it down to a science by now…” He yawned, “Probably only a few hours, unless something goes amiss.”

“Our girl might be home in a few hours then...good…”

“I hope she lets us know when she’s home,” Mycroft roused himself enough to say. “I worry.”

“I’m sure she will...we should get a bigger bed--then we could all three fit in here for a cuddle…”

“We’ll budge up,” Mycroft whispered, stroking his chest, “There’s room enough for all of us…”

**Author's Note:**

> Random bit of trivia for those who did not know this: rationing didn't end in the UK until 4 July 1954. NINETEEN FIFTY-FOUR. By god, you Brits are tough.


End file.
